


Enough Time

by little_murmaider



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Kidklok, Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - War, I certainly do not know, If there's a cliche AU that exists I've covered it, M/M, Multi-universe, Multiple Timelines, What are we even doing here my dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-05 11:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14043096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_murmaider/pseuds/little_murmaider
Summary: “My advice to any heartbroken young girl is to pay close attention to the study of theoretical physics. Because one day there may well be proof of multiple universes. It would not be beyond the realms of possibility that somewhere outside of our own universe lies another, different universe. And in that universe, Zayn is still in One Direction.” - Stephen Hawking





	Enough Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Calliopinot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliopinot/gifts).



> Okay. Listen. If Michael Schur can publish his Soulmate AU fanfiction and call it Critically Acclaimed Television Program "The Good Place" then damnit so can I.

From the top of the hill, the town looked as small as it made Toki feel. A cold wind rolled off the surrounding mountains. The days were getting shorter. The amber glow of streetlights illuminated the distant streets below. Toki squeezed one eye shut and framed the whole town in the space between his pinched fingers. An entire civilization balanced on the pad of his thumb. He clamped down, crushed it all. The church. The school. His house. All destroyed in his mighty grip. He was 12 years old, and he was unstoppable.   
  
Skwisgaar lazed beside him, cushioned by his book bag. Overhead, fat fluffy clouds floated past like paper sailboats. Toki followed Skwisgaar’s line of sight to one just above them, the breeze eroding its edges.  
  
“What does you t’inks dat one looks like?” Toki asked, pointing.  
  
Skwisgaar pursed his lips in contemplation. “I t’inks...dat look...like, a, guitars.”  
  
“You t’inks _everyt’ings_ look like a guitars.”  
  
“Nots my faults all de best t’ings am guitar-shaped.”  
  
Toki flopped back, mimicking his relaxed pose. He laced his fingers over his stomach; didn’t like it; unlaced them; laid his arms at his sides. Cool, stiff blades of grass poked through the thin material of his shirt.  
  
“Heys,” Toki said. “If we mets somewheres else, does you t’inks we’d still be friends?”  
  
Skwisgaar lolled in his direction, eyes crinkling at the corners.  
  
“You means like, if we mets at de parks instead of meetings at school?”  
  
Toki shook his head, the ends of his hair scratching at his cheeks.  
  
“I means like. You’re yous, and I’m mes. But we’re different us-es. What ifs we didn’t meets until we’s all grows-up, in a different place, whens we’s different peoples?” He paused. “Does you t’inks you woulds still wants to pal arounds wif me?”  
  
Skwisgaar scrunched up his nose as though he just smelled something foul.  
  
“I don’ts t’ink abouts dat kinds of stuff.” His front teeth sunk into his lower lip, gnawing down a smirk. “You’re so _weirds_.”  
  
Toki shoved him. “No, _you’re_ de weirds ones!”  
  
“No, _yous_!”  
  
They jostled back and forth, snickering, mud seeping into their clothes, panting with dying laughter. Toki pulled his arm up to rest his cheek in the bend of his elbow.  
  
“What kinds of stuff _does_ you t’inks about, Mr. T’inking Guys?”  
  
With his pointer finger, Skwisgaar traced the fading white trail of a long-passed airplane.  
  
“I t’inks abouts gettings on a jet planes and going aways and neveeerrrrrsssssss coming backs.” He made an engine sound with his mouth, the noise softening as his finger drifted further and further away. Toki felt like someone was standing on his windpipe. He tried to take a breath, his lungs too shallow to hold it.  
  
“Far aways?”  
  
“Ja. As far aways as we can gets.”  
  
Toki met his impish gaze.  
  
“You t’inks I gets outs of heres and leave you behinds? Pffts. You dumber dan you looks.”  
  
“Shuts _uuuuUUUUuuup_!”  
  
“Ands you already look so dumbs!”  
  
Skwisgaar winced as a punch connected with his gut, his laughter squeaking out in staccato bursts. Toki slapped at him with the backs of his hands, each hit weaker than the last until his motions slowed, then stopped completely. The wind whistled low through his loose blond curls. He waited for Skwisgaar to shove him aside. He didn’t.  
  
“Skwisgaar,” he asked, quieter than he meant to, “has you ever kissed anybody?”

The sun descended, the air sharpening with the chill. In the cold Skwisgaar’s lips were a deep, rosy red. They curved upward as another snowy gust from the mountain peaks swept over them like _steam_

 

 _steam_ erupted in a white blossom, and Toki frowned at the sputtering espresso machine. The thing was long overdue for a replacement, but his manager, **_Kevin_ ** , re _fused_ to spend the money. Would rather piss away profits into poorly-designed social media ads. No one was going to come to a coffee shop because they saw an ad on Google+, **_Kevin_ ** . Somedays it felt like Toki was the only one _invested_ in this place’s success. Maybe that’s why he always got stuck with closing shifts. He waved the air clear and rubbed down the steam wand with a damp towel.  
  
The Open Mic Night had been a bust. The only act who showed up for his allotted time slot was Skwisgaar. Toki was mortified; he’d begged **_Kevin_ ** to let him host the event for _months_ , and he couldn’t even get it off the ground. Skwisgaar was, of course, _more_ than happy to absorb the abandoned spots, transmogrifying them into his own personal concert. As much as Toki didn’t want to overinflate Skwisgaar’s already robust ego, he was grateful to him. The scattered audience barely noticed the change in programming, instead transfixed by Skwisgaar’s performance. Whether intentional or not, Skwisgaar spared Toki a lot of embarrassment.  
  
That was hours ago and yet Skwisgaar lingered, feet kicked up on a low table, guitar propped against his seat. Beyond the windows it was dark. It had been raining earlier, but now it was just misty, the asphalt glimmering in alternating reds, yellows and greens from the swinging traffic lights. Toki hefted a parcel of powdered sugar to the counter to prep the frozen frap-a-lapp-a-mocha-lotta mixture.  
  
“You _knows_ ,” he said, dumping the sugar into a massive plastic pitcher. “If you’re gonna sticks arounds you _coulds_ help me close ups.”  
  
Skwisgaar reclined further into his armchair.  
  
“Pfft. Dat ain’ts my jobs. I _dids_ my job. I puts de butts in de seats. You t’inks de peoples coming heres to gets yous hot tire water?”  
  
Toki whipped a wet rag in Skwisgaar’s direction and it landed on his face with a sloppy _smack_ .  
  
“ _Mlegh!_ ” Skwisgaar gagged.  
  
“Just wipes downs de tables, you big babys.”  
  
“I’ll wipes _you_ downs,” he grumbled, peeling off his bomber jacket as he slouched to his feet. It was quiet between them for a time. Toki worked through his Closing Time Checklist with experienced ease; Skwisgaar spun his rag into a rope and boredly whacked at the each table. Coffee grounds and the sticky remains of dried spills had slipped through the cracks in the protective rubber rug behind the barista station. Sigh. Another expense **_Kevin_ ** found unnecessary. Toki hooked his foot beneath the corner and kicked up, the rug halving over itself to reveal the grimey tile below. He retrieved a dust pan and hand broom from beneath the counter.  
  
“Hey,” Toki called out as he stooped to sweep. “Whats was de last songs you played tonights?”  
  
The metal caps of table legs _screeeeeeeeeeched_ as they skidded across the floor.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I nevers heard you plays it befores. Was it news?”  
  
Toki heard a stool tip over, then clatter to the ground. “I plays all kinds of t’ings, all de times. Maybe you never noticed its? Eh? Ever t’inks about _dat_ ?”  
  
This mess had congealed. Toki would need a mop. He stood, cracking his back.  
  
“Nahs,” he said. “I woulds d’of remembered dat ones. Most ofs your stuff ams so **_jugga-jigga-wugga_ ** **.** But dis one. It was…”  
  
He hesitated. What was the best way to say, _it sounded like you pulled my heart out of my chest and stared me dead in the eye and wrung it out in front of me.  
  
_ He settled on, “pretty.”  
  
Skwisgaar sputtered.  
  
“My music ain’ts _pretty_ !” He twisted the rag in his fists. “My music ams _intense!_ ”  
  
“Ha ha! Whats so intense abouts dat!”  
  
“I wrotes it whens--!” he caught himself. “I hads. Intense feelings. Abouts somet’ing.”  
  
Toki stopped. He righted his body to face Skwisgaar.  
  
“What kinds of intense feelings?” he murmured.

Water dripped from the gnarled rag. A flush bled down Skwisgaar’s face to his chest. Toki watched his mouth open, close, open, _close_

 

 _close_ was in 15 minutes but he still had to try. He’d been searching all over the county, butting up against dead-end after dead-end, and this was the last lead worth following. The library was on the edge of town, so small he overshot it three times. Possibility vibrated in his veins as he approached the circulation desk. Stacks of unsorted books flanked the librarian on duty, his face hidden behind a massive tome. As he drew closer Toki could make out the title.   _A Complete History On Every Instrument Ever Invented, Ever. Like, Ever. All Of Them. They’re All Here. In This Book_ .  
  
“Um, hellos?” Toki squeaked.  
  
The librarian unfurled his fingers from the book jacket and turned the page with deliberation.  
  
“I’m, uh, lookings for a books? Please?”  
  
“Ja, we gots does,” the librarian replied, not without irritation. He clapped his read shut, peering down at Toki over a pair of round tortoise shell glasses. “Whats you want?”  
  
Toki fumbled through his pockets, muttering apologies. The librarian rolled his eyes, adjusting the white shirt collar folded neatly over the neck of his green cable-knit sweater. At last Toki found what his sought: A scrap of paper upon which he had scribbled the title of a book, out of print since 1953. The librarian scanned it for less than a second, then handed it back to him.  
  
“Dis ams in our rare book collection,” he said. “It cannot be checked outs.”  
  
Toki lit up. “But you has it?”  
  
“Uh, _ja_ , dat’s what I says, isn’t its?”  
  
“Cans I just looks at it? Evens for a minutes?”  
  
The librarian’s mouth set in a firm, definitive line. Toki already felt the annihilating weight of denial pounding down his bones.  
  
“ _Please_ ?” he begged.  
  
The librarian tipped his head to the side, toward a hunched, gap toothed figure balancing a dozen encyclopedic-sized texts on each arm.  
  
“Watch de desk, I’ll be backs ins a bit.”  
  
The figure dropped his load, the books collapsing to the ground with an echoing thud.    
  
The library housed more depth than Toki realized. He followed the librarian down a winding staircase, keeping his hand on the cool stone wall as he walked. The lighting was low, so he kept his eyes locked on the librarian’s tidy blond bun coiled at the nape of his neck.  
  
“Colds down here!” he said brightly.  
  
The librarian scoffed. “Gots to keep de archives cold. Don’ts wants to damage dese olds books.” A room materialized around Toki as the librarian flicked the lights on. With one hand he dug into his back pocket, and with the other he gestured to a table at the center of the room, then disappeared behind a stack. “Waits here.”  
  
Toki didn’t sit. Instead, he took in his surroundings. The mottled, foggy glass that comprised each level’s floor. The brass stacks puncturing through the ceiling and into the upper echelons of the building. The wooden sheen of the furniture. So much thought put into this place’s construction and decor. Toki wondered how much credit to give the librarian for that.  
  
“You works here longs?” Toki bleated. The librarian shushed him, then answered in a hushed voice that raised the hairs on the backs of Toki’s arms.  
  
“Longs enough,” he said. “I likes de quiets.”  
  
He emerged, white plastic gloves adorning his hands, cradling the book Toki had been hunting for for so long. His heart did a backflip. As he approached excitement overwhelmed Toki and he clawed at the air between them like a greedy child. The librarian clucked his tongue.  
  
“Eh-eh,” he tutted. “It can’ts leaves dis rooms. Alsos? Your chubby little hands can’ts touch it. De whole t’ings woulds probably dis-een-tear-grates.”  
  
Toki huffed.  
  
“I tells you whats.” He took a seat, and Toki followed. “You tells me what parts you wants to looks at, and I’ll toirns de pages for yous.”  
  
Not an ideal solution, but one Toki would happily accept. Having already memorized the table of contents, he sat on his hands, instructed the librarian to the exact section he wanted to read.  
  
“So’s,” the librarian drawled, taking his time to find the passage, “you writings a papers or somet’ings?”  
  
“Nopes,” Toki answered. “I just love planes.”  
  
The librarian looked at him sidelong. “Dere ams lots of books about planes dat amn’ts so hards to track downs.  
  
“I knows. But nobody writes about planes de ways _dis_ guy writes about planes.”  
  
The clock at the room’s entrance clicked ever-closer to closing time. The librarian’s bicep grazed Toki’s elbow. Even through the coldness, Toki felt the warmth of the librarian’s body rolling off him in waves.  
  
The librarian tucked his finger beneath the opposite page.  
  
“Tells me whens you wants me to toirns,” he said, using that hushed voice again. “And I’lls toirns.”  
  
“Don’ts you gots to close ups soon?”  
  
The librarian shrugged. “I’ll close whens you’re dones. Read fast.”  
  
Toki beamed, then buried himself in the text. His eyes kept skipping over sentences, too eager to reach the end, impress the librarian with their speed.  
  
“Toirns,” he muttered, and the librarian complied. “Cans I comes back and looks at it agains tomorrow?”  
  
The librarian chuckled. “You cans comes back whenever you wants, dudes.”  
  
He chanced a glance up. The librarian’s mouth spread into a small, warm smile that ignited something in Toki. He cast his eyes down, back to the book. Tried to focus on something else. He felt his brain swelling with information. The construction of these ancient crafts, their dimensions and size, the way they could cut through the skies like knives and open their bellies to release a barrage of _bombs_

 

 _bombs_ unmade the village, foundations crumbling beneath the force. Sergeant Wartooth squinted his eyes shut from the spray of debris, felt it patter against his brow and mouth. The intel had been wrong. Their battalion had been destroyed. The enemy continued to advance. He was trapped behind the rapidly deteriorating wall of a chapel, shielded temporarily by the altar. In his arms was his lieutenant, shrapnel in his gut, blood soaking through his uniform.  A distant mortar whistled. They did not have much time.  
  
“How’s de war goingks for yous?” Lieutenant Skwigelf wheezed, grinning as much as he could manage. “Cause it ams, ha ha, not greats. For. Mes."  
  
Toki’s grip tightened.  
  
“We’s gonna gets outs of dis,” he lied. “Medics ams coming.”  
  
Lieutenant Skwigelf hissed a short, rueful laugh. Then, eyes brimming with desperation, he asked in a soft, scared voice, “Tells me agains what we gonna does when de war’s over.”  
  
A sob snaked up Wartooth’s throat. He stamped it out and replied, “We’s gonna open a music schools.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“And you’s gonna teach alls de kidlets how to plays guitars. Cause you’s de best guitarist in de worlds, you knows dat?”  
  
The lieutenant pushed off his helmet, nuzzling his face into the sergeant’s chest.  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“And yous--”  
  
The mortar’s whistle grew louder. Wartooth’s ears rung. Hot tears leaked from his eyes as he buried his face in the roots of Skwigelf’s hair.  
  
“Yous gonna makes people happy. As happy as you mades _me_ .”  
  
The lieutenant’s breathing became labored but his smile did not falter.  
  
“ _Gråt inte_ ,” he whispered, and that was the last thing Wartooth heard before the mortar reached the Earth, and his body was blown apart in a thousand pieces in the _blast_

 

 _blast_ his stereo as loud as he could if that’s what it took to get him to come over. Toki turned his speakers into the wall, nearly tripping over the wires as he did so, and held his finger over the play button. But he couldn’t pull the trigger. That had been the problem all along, hadn’t it? Ever since his neighbor moved in six months ago Toki had been a man possessed, aching for his attention, lying awake at night scheming and obsessing. Some nights he pressed his ear to their shared wall just to hear his movements, get a sense of who he was outside of their fleeting interactions at the mailbox or in the hallway. He seemed so nice. Toki just wanted confirmation.  
  
He sank to the floor in a puddle. He was nuts. He _knew_ he was nuts. But the only way to _stop_ being nuts was to confront the problem head-on. Brutally, if possible. It was the worst possible solution. But it was also the only one available at the moment. So he took it.  
  
Toki dragged his hands across his face and stood. What was so hard about knocking on someone’s door and asking if they were free to spend some time together? Nothing, but also everything. He choked down his trepidation. Crossed to his front door. Paused, took a breath, smoothed down his hair. Swallowed. Grabbed the knob. Flung the door open, only to find his neighbor standing in his threshold, nervously clutching a bottle of wine, his fist poised to _knock_

 

 _knock_  of the ping pong ball as it bounced off the table and into Skwisgaar’s awaiting hand. He grinned, and Toki felt his internal organs liquify. Toki still didn’t know the rules to this game. He didn’t particularly _care_ to learn, either. He came to this house party in the hopes of stealing a minute from the beautiful astronomy major sophomore he’d seen floating across campus all semester. And then, miracle of miracles, he needed a partner for this game that involved throwing balls at cups. Toki readily volunteered. His belly was bloated with beer and his body was swollen with confidence. How hard could it be?  
  
“Sooooooo,” Skwisgaar said, tossing his hair aside like he was in a shampoo commercial. He threw his ball and it _tinked_ pathetically off the rim of a red cup on the opposite end of the table. “How comes I never seens you arounds before, eh?”  
  
Toki launched his ball without looking. It sailed straight over the cups and directly into the palm of his opponent.  
  
“Dunnos. Maybes you just never noticeds.”  
  
A ball plinked into a half-full solo cup of beer on their side. Skwisgaar scooped it out and downed the drink in one shot.  
  
“I woulds have noticed yous.”  
  
“Gimme an I formation,” brayed the red-headed dredded opponent on the opposite end of the table. Skwisgaar shaped the three remaining cups into a vertical, straight line.  
  
“Maybe you just didn’ts look hards enough,” Toki said.  
  
Another ball sank into one of their cups. They were down to two, yet their opponents still had their six aligned in an unobstructed pyramid. Skwisgaar rolled the other ball back to them for reasons Toki did not understand and did not ask for clarification on.  
  
“Maybes,” Skwisgaar faced him as the other team hit another shot, “you shoulds have dones a better jobs being notice-a-bles.”  
  
Toki squinted one eye shut and cocked his head.  
  
“Maaaaaa~ybe,” he slurred, “you shoulds’a seen whats right in front of yous.”  
  
“Oh, ja?”  
  
“Ja.”  
  
“So dis all my faults?”  
  
“Maybes!”  
  
He tucked his hair behind his ear, his eyes glittering and smile dazzling and Toki was so weak and _so drunk_ .  
  
“I’m sorries,” he said. “How cans I makes it up to yous?”  
  
The ping pong ball sank into their final cup, and the room erupted in cheers. Skwisgaar’s brow furrowed. He turned toward the table, and blanched.  
  
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh _fuck_ !” cried the red-head, clamoring for high fives from the surrounding crowd. His partner, a hulking dark-haired boy, stuck his tongue out, made his hand into a _C_ , and aggressively gestured back and forth in the area near his crotch. “Ya just got shut tha _fuck_ out! Ya know what that means, dooshbeegs!"  
  
Skwisgaar stared at their empty side of the table, horrified.  
  
“I’ve never beens shut outs before.”  
  
Toki tried to make his body as small as possible. “Eheh. It ams just ones games, right? Whats de big deals?”  
  
Skwisgaar’s left eye twitched with rage. He hissed his words through gritted teeth.  
  
“Does you knows what happens when you gets shut outs in a games of beer pongs?”  
  
Across the table, the red-head pounded the table in time with a chant, low at first, but gradually building into an abrasive chorus as the surrounding crowd accompanied him.  
  
“Na. Ked. Lap. Na. Ked. Lap. Na! Ked! Lap! **_Na! Ked! Lap! NA! KED! LAP!_ ** ”  
  
Toki realized he’d made a huge mistake.  
  
Skwisgaar, relishing the sudden attention like a victorious gladiator, scanned the room, stroking his chin with the tips of his fingers. He caught Toki’s terrified stare, and winked.  
  
“Gots to gives de peoples whats dey wants,” he said. And he tore his shirt off, to the rabid elation of the crowd.  
  
Toki found himself lifted by the swell of overenthusiastic drunken party-goers, pushing him toward the front entrance of the frat house. By now Skwisgaar had shed all but his boots, his privates cupped in his palm. Toki’s anxiety skittered through his nerves like fire ants. With his free hand, Skwisgaar palmed the back of Toki’s skull.  
  
“You gots us into dis mess,” he said, the corner of his mouth pulling up, “gots to pays de pipers.”  
  
Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the crowd. Maybe it was the gorgeous naked man beside him he was so desperate to impress. Whatever the reason, Toki shunted his fear aside, and dropped trou. The crowd roared.  
  
“Ya know what ta do,” the red-head said. “One lap around the property. On yer mark.”  
  
Skwisgaar nabbed Toki’s hand.  
  
“Get set.”  
  
He squeezed.  
  
“ _Go_ .”  
  
They were off like a shot. Past the poorly-maintained shrubbery and fences of chipping paint. Through the cemented backyard, where guests hovered uninterestedly around the spent keg. Circumventing the garage, where they were met with a spray of foam from one guest’s over-shaken beer can. The ground was cragled beneath them, so Toki kept sprinting on the balls of his feet.  All the while Skwisgaar did not release Toki, his grip tight and his guidance sure. As they looped back toward the front door, Skwisgaar tugged him back, into an alley between the frat house and their neighbor's, both of them gasping with laughter.  
  
Then the laughter petered.  
  
And it was quiet.  
  
And Skwisgaar was still holding his hand.  
  
“We shoulds get backs insides,” Skwisgaar said, thumb skimming the inside of Toki’s wrist.  
  
“Does we, though?” Toki asked.  
  
Before Skwisgaar could answer, a siren sounded. Everything lit up in red and blue. The red-head, clenching both of their clothes, clambered toward them.  
  
“It’s tha fuzz! Tha 5-0! Cherrytops! Pigs!”  
  
Toki glanced at Skwisgaar. “I don’ts know what any of dose words means.”  
  
“It’s tha _fuckin’ cops_ .” He stuffed their clothes back into their hands. Skwisgaar was already half-dressed. “If they catch us with fuckin’ underage kids here I’ll lose my fuckin’ scholarship, _get the fuck out_ .”  
  
Before Toki finished tugging on his shirt Skwisgaar was gone, pants unbuttoned, shirt off, disappearing through the streets like a bolt of white lightening, hot and fast and unable to be contained, fading further and further into the night, growing smaller, fainter, until he was gone, _gone_

  
  
_gone._ Outs wif de olds, ins wif de news. I'm goingks to teach yous how to plays dis part, and I promise I'll only yells at you whens you deserves it.” He pursed his lips. "You'll probably deserves it a lots."  
  
"Skwis _gaaaaar_ you saids you wouldn'ts  _bes_ like dat-!"  
  
"Sorries, sorries, old habits die hards, you knows?" He shifted forward so their knees scraped together. "Also, you makes it  _really_ easy."  
  
" _Skwisgaar!!!_ "  
  
"Hueghhueghhuegh."  
  
They were alone in the studio, isolated even from the klokateers. Skwisgaar repositioned Toki’s hands on the fretboard, adjusting his fingers to find the correct chords. The ends of his hair swung out toward Toki as he moved, brushing the inside of Toki’s elbow. His hands tensed. Toki watched his Adam's Apple bob as he swallowed. His gaze flicked up. It was soft, not derisive, trying  _so_ hard to be nice. He just wanted to be nice.   
  
“You cans does dis. I _knows_ you can does dis," he said. "Plays it for me nows, okay?”  
  
Toki didn’t play it. Skwisgaar was right, he _could_ have done it. But he didn’t want to. What he wanted to do was lean forward and press his mouth against Skwisgaar’s, feel him freeze, and then melt into the kiss, let his grip relax, default to Toki’s affection. So that’s what he did.  
  
“What’s you does dat fors?” Skwisgaar asked when he stopped, eyes still closed. Toki shrugged an unseen shrug.  
  
“It felts like I beens waiting to does dat a longs times,” he said.  
  
Skwsgaar's breathy laugh tickled against his mouth.  
  
“You’re so _weirds_ ,” he said. And kissed him again.


End file.
